


Here is somewhere else

by flawsinthevoodoo



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:33:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4842578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawsinthevoodoo/pseuds/flawsinthevoodoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saader is a sub, adrift after the trade, and ends up looking for love in all the wrong places and one right one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here is somewhere else

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alotofthingsdifferent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alotofthingsdifferent/gifts).



> This is a gift for alotofthingsdifferent. Hope you like it!

 

> Love at night, here is somewhere else  
>           And I wish you were more than my emergency contact number for a broken heart
> 
> \- _I wrote this for you_ , Iain Thomas

Brandon is jockeying with Shawsy for couch space as the Xbox turns on, grappling with him for the last controller as Darls looks on in amusement, when he is distracted by the buzzing of his pocket. Shawsy crows with his victory, holding the controller high like the cup, knocking Brandon off the couch entirely. In his defense, he is a little distracted trying to look at his phone. It’s his agent, and he feels a little thrill of hope running through him. This could be good news. He flips Shawsy off and answers the phone, gesturing that the guys should go ahead and ignore him for now. He cups his hand around his mouth to filter out the sounds of the guys playing COD, but he will probably end up walking down the hall to get away from them. It wouldn’t be the first time this summer. He’s starting to get used to it, the wondering about his future. Though his future in Chicago seems pretty solid, he’s not too worried. His agent sounds nervous, though, when he answers, and that puts Brandon a little on edge. The guy talks for a while, getting all of the pleasantries out of the way, but Brandon can tell something big is coming and he has a feeling it isn’t the good news he was hoping for.

 

“Brandon, I am not going to beat around the bush with you here—you’ve been traded to the Columbus Blue Jackets.”

 

Brandon’s knees crumple beneath him. “Traded?” he croaks out, not sure whom he is asking. His agent is saying something but he doesn’t hear him. It doesn’t make any sense—he just won the cup with them, for them, and now Brandon thinks he should have been more worried about all of this, been more present in negotiations, been in close communication with the team himself, because then he wouldn’t be feeling so utterly blindsided by this. His mouth is forming words and he hopes they’re the right ones, but he doesn’t have the brainpower to spare to actually focus on this, too overwhelmed with the feeling of being unmoored. The call ends but Brandon cannot make himself move from that spot. This isn’t how this is supposed to happen: he is supposed to retire with this team, hang his fucking number in the rafters next to Tazer’s. Get a letter on his jersey in a few years, win another cup with the team.

 

“How the hell did this happen?” he whispers, clenching his phone in his hand like it is the only thing holding him together, something not too far off the the truth in that moment. He doesn’t know how long he sits there like that, but suddenly there is a hand on the back of his neck—Seabs’ hand, his brain supplies—and he is relaxing into its gentle hold. There is no clock in the room, but the level of protest he gets from his legs as Seabs ushers him up lets him know he had to have been kneeling for a while. Seabs lets him choose the direction at the door, bedroom or playroom, and he almost starts to cry with frustration. He wants the relief of one of their scenes, the ability to leave himself and just exist, and he knows that he won’t be able to do this too many more times now, but he is so tired and everything aches and just being held sounds like heaven. Seabs is a good Dom if a little blunt at times, so he reads Brandon’s distress and calmly guides him to their bedroom. When they get to the room, they don’t head for the bed as Brandon had expected, but instead to the loveseat at its side with the padded kneeling bench at its feet that they haven’t used since Brent asked Brandon to move in with him. Brandon isn’t one of those subs who flies to pieces if they don’t kneel regularly, and oftentimes they spent the times he did kneel out in the living room, where Brent could watch a movie and hand-feed him if he was in that kind of mood. Tonight the feelings are somewhat different; there is something formal about the way Seabs is setting this all up that makes the loveseat seem like the appropriate place.

 

Brandon collapses gratefully at Brent's feel, leaning into the warm firm length of his legs as he runs his finger through Brandon’s hair. They sit in silence for a while before Brandon can bring himself to break it.

 

“I got traded,” Brandon says, sounding as forlorn as he feels.

 

“Shhh, I know, babe.”

 

“To Columbus,” he adds, though he supposes Brent probably knows that, too.

 

“Mmmmhmm,” Brent hums in agreement.

 

“It’s not here.”

 

“Do you want to do this now?” Brent asks, hands stilling in his hair.

 

“I—I just need you to tell me it’s all going to be ok, that you’ll take care of me.” Brandon knows there is a whine to his tone, and that he’s asking for more than their casual relationship contract really gives him the right to, but goddamnit, Brent always bothers him about asking for what he needs and, well, this is it.

 

Brent’s face crumples and he immediately pulls Brandon from his kneeling bench into his lap.

 

“Oh, honey, I wish I could do that for you. But you know—you know this wouldn’t work long-distance between us. You need someone there to take care of you, and, baby, I wish that that was me, but we both know I’m not the guy for the job.”

 

Brandon gives him a weak smile, hating the wrecked look on Seabs’ face and knowing he put it there. “Let’s just have tonight then—will you take care of me tonight?”

 

Brent’s face clears a little, though his eyes are still sad. “Of course, sweetheart, of course.”

 

The first thing Brandon does after Brent leaves the next morning is cut his hair. He feels a twinge a guilt about it right before he remembers that he doesn’t have a Dom to disappoint any more. The beard goes next. It’s a little harder to cut that bond between the team and himself, but, in the end, he needs the clean break if this is what his life is going to look like. He looks in the mirror and doesn’t recognize himself; he can’t tell if it’s the hair or the scared look in his eyes that he isn’t used to.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Skating with Sidney Crosby is a dream come true. Even after a few years in the league, even after playing against him, the man still holds a level of fascination that Brandon cannot shake. His skill on the ice is enough to make a grown man cry, but more important to Brandon when he was growing up was that he was openly an Uncollared Sub and expressed zero desire to look for a Dom. When Brandon had been classified at thirteen, the knowledge that Sidney Crosby was out there battling it out on the ice was his saving grace. So watching him now in the locker room and on the ice acting like every other hockey player, singing to himself, spraying guys with water bottles, screwing up a drill occasionally, was pretty much the best thing Brandon could think of happening. And honestly, after the summer he had had thus far, he felt entitled to a little awesomeness. Sid was great to play with, for all that he made Brandon pour on the steam until his calves and quads were screaming just to keep up with him. It was clear after a “friendly” game of three-on-three that Sid saw the game in a completely different way, on a completely different level, than Brandon, and Brandon wanted nothing more than to pick his brains. Luckily enough, Sid seemed to want to spend more time with Brandon. “Sub bonding time,” he had said with an edge in the locker room. He should have known that lunch was an ambush.

 

Sid at least had the decency of waiting until they had both finished their burgers before springing his trap.

 

“So, have you found anybody new up in Columbus?”

 

Brandon chokes a little on his water. “Umm, no?”

 

“It’s just you’ve looked, well... not your best, since the trade.”

 

Brandon eyes him, suddenly sure that he knows where this is coming from. “Tazer talked to you didn’t he?”

 

“He’s just worried about you, and can you blame him? You’ve pretty much been a walking media smile since you left Chicago. I saw you out on the ice today, and when you smiled it was the first time I believed you were happy this entire summer. Hell, you even looked depressed on your day with the cup, and that’s just not right.”

 

“I appreciate your concern, really I do. But...it’s not that simple. I can’t just go out and find a Dom—I haven’t even been able to go under for anyone since the trade.”

 

Sid cocks his head curiously. “How did you do it in Chicago?”

 

Brandon flushes. “I had a casual bond contract with a teammate,” he mutters, hoping Sid will just drop this.

 

“Could you go under for him?”

 

“Yeah, I went under there just fine, but I go out in Columbus or here and nobody works.”

 

“Hmmm… Maybe,” Sid says carefully, “we should take this talk somewhere a little more private?”

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Brandon can’t stop fiddling with the fringe on the edge of his couch cushions, twisting and untwisting the hanging threads. Duck Dynasty is blaring from his TV, but he isn’t really seeing it, his brain still turning over the talk he had had with Sid. Their conversation had left him pretty shaken up. “Trust” is such a big word, especially for subs, and it chills him to the core to realize he was going to a city where he had no one that he knew for certain he could trust, hell, doesn’t really know any of them that well. He’s sure with time he’ll find someone that he can trust, but the not having anybody now is really starting to get to him. And if he looks bad enough that Tazer has noticed, then it wouldn’t be long before the media does. He’s going to have to find some way to de-stress, even if he can’t get to subspace right now.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Media Day is like running sprints all day for two days straight. Sit in front of a camera, answer questions, get up change into a different suit, and do it again, change and take pictures, change into gear and take video, change back into a suit and answer the same questions again to different reporters. It feels like it will never end and Brandon could swear that he can feel the muscles in his face used for smiling slowly seizing up. He’s pretty much holding himself together by a thread as it is, and spending all day pretending that he isn’t scared out of his mind by this trade has him shakier than he’d been since the day the trade broke. He needs to sub so badly he would try to go down for just about anyone; he’s probably the lightest touch in the city at that point. So when Nick “call-me-Fligs” Foligno comes over and swings his arm around his shoulders, Brandon finds himself immediately sinking into its firm weight, eyes at half mast. Fligs looks startled for a moment, but he quickly gets it together, his face falling into compassionate lines. Thankfully there isn’t a trace of pity there.

 

“You need to go down, buddy?”

 

Brandon nods, hoping that if he doesn’t verbalize, it will be easier to fall.

 

“Alright, that’s ok, but we’re gonna need to figure a few things out first. That ok?”

 

Brandon looks up at him, hoping he doesn’t look as pitiful, as needy, as he feels.

 

“Hey, hey, it’s ok. I’m just going to go over here and get a temp contract from the front desk.” Nick’s voice is soothing, but Brandon can feel his muscles starting to re-tense at the mention of him leaving. Nick, adept at dealing with overwrought subs—or at least working with a good set of instincts—cuts him off at the pass with a gentle smile.

 

“Can you get me a beer from the bar like a good boy while I get the contract?”

 

Having something to do, some kind of direction, is soothing, and Brandon can feel the fog of subspace at the edges of his mind as he crosses the hotel lobby to the bar. He loses any trace of relaxation at the bar, though—he doesn’t know what Nick likes to drink; hell, he doesn’t really even know Nick: he doesn’t know what music he listens to, what he likes to eat, what his boundaries are in a scene, he’s got nothing. Staring at the beer menu, his breath starts coming in short, shallow bursts, and he knows in some sort of disconnected way that his hands are shaking. There is a high pitched whining noise, like a wounded animal, coming from somewhere and he doesn’t know where Nick is and he just doesn’t have anything left. A firm hand grips the back of his neck and forces him to his knees, keeping the pressure on him even once he’s kneeling, keeping him grounded. He doesn’t know who the hand belongs to, but the gruff voice that goes with it sounds familiar enough that he finds himself almost instinctively obeying it.

 

“Hartsy, what they hell are you doing here? Wait, is that Brandon? What happened?” And Nick, that must be Nick. He shouldn’t worry. Brandon’s alright, the voice has him.

 

“Keep your voice down, Fliggy. I was in the neighborhood and saw the kid was freaking out, having a panic attack I think, I’m just grounding him til he calms down.” The voice sounds patient and calm and not at all mad at Brandon for freaking out in the middle of a hotel bar. Somehow, that is enough to have Brandon coming back to himself. He looks up at a smiling face with a vaguely familiar, shaggy, ginger beard and feels a wave of humiliation wash over him that Hartnell, a teammate he hasn’t even officially met yet, was the one to see him panic like a tween over beer selection. He tries to avoid eye contact, looking back at the ground, cheeks burning, but Hartnell won’t let him, tilting his head back up with his other hand.

 

“Hey there, Brandon, is it?” Hartsy asks with a grin, seemingly wholly unbothered by having to deal with some strange sub. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. Someone so sweet as you ought to have had someone looking after you, yeah?”

 

Brandon doesn’t nod, but he relaxes back into the hold Hartsy has on him and closes his eyes.

 

“You got him from here Fligs?”

 

“Looks like you’ve got him, Bud.”

 

“Nah, I’ve got dinner with G in a few.”

 

Brandon listens to them argue over him with a feeling of guilt curdling in his gut. It’s clear neither of them really want him, not to keep, not even to take care of for the night, so he slides to his feet, in a fluid movement every sub worth their salt learns in childhood, shrugging off Harnell’s hands in the process.

 

“Don’t worry about me, either of you. I’ve got me tonight, ok?” He rasps, voice hoarse from the noise he must have been making, but eyes defiant. Before either of them can protest, he turns and walks to the elevator as if he can’t hear them. He’ll have to find another way for him to get to subspace.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

After the fiasco that was trying to kneel for his Captain, Brandon pretty much kept quiet until camp. He went out with guys as they returned to town one by one, got dinner with Bob and his Domme, saw a movie with Nauts, Ryan and Boone, even saw Nick again, though they both carefully avoided mentioning his meltdown in Toronto. And if Scott Hartnell of the amazing hands and voice made a few guest appearances in his fantasies, no one needed to know but himself. It wasn’t anyone else’s business who he was or wanted to be kneeling for anyway. That is, of course, until it was.

 

Every team handles their dynamic management a little differently. In Chicago, you dealt with it on your own, or you could sign up to be paired with another member of the organization, or you could go unpartnered if you pleased and it didn’t hurt your game. Apparently, Columbus was of the opinion that any unpartnered player was a liability, which is how Brandon found himself the day before camp starting a pile of Dossiers for every unpaired member of the Blue Jackets who fit the parameters listed in his own. About ten in, he is starting think he might want to update his own on-file preferences just to weed out the boring or scarily out-of-his-comfort-zone ones, because, based on what he was reading, he hadn’t done a great job at that. Granted, he had been a rookie, but still, there had to be some better way than this. No amount of pleading with management seemed to move them, so Brandon reluctantly returned to sorting his pile. He was about two seconds from just choosing one at random just to get this entire mess over with, when his eye caught on the next folder in the pile. “S. Hartnell.” His heart beat a little faster. He opened it up and scanned the pages. Everything in it was perfect—likes, dislikes, limits—until he got to preferred contract type and saw “temporary casual only.” His heart sank. Hartsy was perfect for him, but taking temporary contract, knowing he only got him during the season, knowing that they were never moving towards anything more—going in knowing that might just break him. He put Hartsy’s aside and went through the rest. Hours later, he was sitting with his head in his hands when the poor lady from HR was sent in after him.

 

“Have you made a decision?” She sounded so perky, and Brandon wanted to punch her, but instead he returned her smile with his own media smile.

 

“I think I found just the person,” he said, lying through his teeth as he passed her the file of one of the personal trainers.

 

“Perfect, I’ll just enter it into the system and go get him.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

\---------------------------------------------------

 

Andre is a perfectly nice guy and a very pleasant Dom—he gives hands-down the best massages that Brandon has ever had—but no matter how relaxed he is from the massage or the rubdown, he just can’t get into that headspace with him. After the first few times, when Andre had seemed so worried, so put down that he couldn’t get Brandon there, he had started researching how to simulate subspace. He had it down pretty nearly perfectly after about a month, and Andre seemed much happier now that he was faking it, which was one less thing Brandon had to worry about. He was hoping having someone else take care him regularly, even if he could fall, would diffuse the last of his silly crush on Hartsy, but the guy was just so nice.

 

When Brandon was feeling extra shitty, missing his favorite restaurant, Hartsy listened and then found a place almost exactly like it in Columbus. When he was moping because Shawsy cancelled their chat session and they hadn’t talked in weeks, Hartsy got a group of them all together and they went out to a bar. He didn’t realize it then, but Hartsy spent all night distracting him. Even in practice, where things were mostly normal—hockey was hockey no matter where you play—Hartsy would joke around with him, make sure he was included when guys started grouping off and talking about stuff, and he would give him all these little Dom touches, things you do for your sub when they’re doing well, pats on the head and little gifts in his stall because “I thought you’d like it.” It all adds up to an awesome guy, but someone Brandon finds impossible to get over.

 

The worst thing about him is also the best thing about him: all of these little behavioral quirks, the things that make every fiber of Brandon’s body stand at attention, they aren’t for him, they’re all things that Hartsy would do for anyone. So he has to watch, the night after Hartsy takes him out to dinner, as he does the same for Wennberg, and again as he pets Boone after a six-point game. The thing is, he knows Hartsy doesn’t want him, doesn’t want anyone, the way Brandon needs to be wanted, but he watches and wants and, with every gentle touch and word of praise, he wishes with every ounce of his being that he could be enough. But he knows he’s not, so he goes home with Andre every night and puts on the charade of a happy sub, hoping that if he performs the act often enough, being content will become like a wrist shot, muscle memory so ingrained he doesn’t have to think about it.

 

He thinks he’s getting away with this act, being pretty sneaky about how much he watches Hartsy and how much he savors every scrap of affection he hands out so casually in the locker room, but sometimes he looks up and catches Hartsy looking back. For a little while that is enough to give him hope, to keep him grounded even though he hasn’t been in subspace for months now, and enough to let him dream that maybe he had done or said something that made him good enough for Hartsy to want him. But nothing ever comes from those looks, and, in the end, he has to tell himself to stop hoping, because it hurts more and more each time he is let down. He tries to bury those feelings deep down and focus on his hockey, because with a ten-game winning streak that’s all that is going right anymore.

 

Then they play Philly. The Flyers come out with a nasty first period, the penalty box is full of a rotating cast of increasingly pissed off hockey players, and for all that the Jackets have some spectacular scoring talent, they just can’t get anything to go in. They push and they push but they can all see the story being written as they play. They come out in the third thirsty for the chance it’s a one-goal game but for all the puck luck they got, they might as well not have tried.

 

The locker room after the game is nearly silent, or as silent as one can get, with the sounds of muffled cursing and opening velcro as the media approaches. Bob doesn’t say anything, but Brandon can tell he needs to scene with someone. Fligs would normally handle it, but he just sits in his stall, head in his hands, until Bob lets out this tiny little whimper of a noise. Then the captain is up across the room in seconds and dragging his friend into one of the scene rooms off of the dressing room.

 

Brandon feels a little of the guilt in the room dissipate with their exit, and some of the oppressive anger they all carry after a loss seems to leave the set of the guys’ shoulders and the clench of their hands. He wants to feel relieved, he wants to feel optimistic, he wants to feel anything but this giant swirl of anger and need and sadness and the always-there, ever-.ignored feeling of not being enough that fills him to the brim. He stands in front of his stall with teeth clenched and nails digging into his hands trying to use the pain to ground him, to keep himself focused, but then Dubi pats him on the back on his way to go shower, and whatever was holding him together just vanishes.

 

He knows he’s crying, with these huge gulping sobs that make his chest hurt and his shoulders shake. He claps both of his hands over his mouth, as if that would keep the sobs in, but that just makes it worse. He can feel it all happening as he sinks to the ground, curling in on himself, knows he’s embarrassing himself, and, if the media catches him, the team, but he can’t seem to stop himself. He hears the guys yelling for Andre and then sometime later, maybe a few minutes, he feels a hand on his shoulders and an arm wrap around him, but it doesn’t help. Now he’s coughing and sobbing and the arms feel too tight, they feel wrong and he can’t handle them as he struggles in their hold and pulls away. He doesn’t see the stricken look on Andre’s face or the shocked ones on his teammates. But he does hear a gentle voice that he thinks is Cam asking him if he can hear them. He tries to nod, but doesn’t know how successful he is, still trying to breathe through the shuddering sobs. They ask him what he needs, but that just makes him cry harder. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know anything, that’s the problem! He doesn’t know how to fix himself and he’s broken, so broken that no one wants him, not really, not forever, not to collar, and maybe, if he wasn’t so broken, Hartsy might want him. He’s sure he’s babbling now and tries to stop, but all that does is produce some sort of keening noise from the back of his throat. He’s not sure that’s any better.

 

Then, suddenly, there is a hand on his back, light like it can be taken away at any moment, and a hand combing through his hair, stroking it in a familiar pattern. These are hands Brandon recognizes—these are Hartsy’s hands stroking up and down his back, Harsty’s voice murmuring, telling him it’s all going to be okay. Harsty helping him to his feet and half-helping, half-carrying him into one of the scene rooms. Hartsy letting him curl up on his lap and rocking him until he has cried all the tears he has, until he feels raw and empty, cored out. He lies there drifting on the sound of Hartsy’s voice, mind foggy and at peace like it hasn’t been for almost a year. He may not get to keep him, but he’ll take what he can get. Eventually, Hartsy starts talking to him, addressing him by name, pulling him back up; it’s a battle for him to come back, he was down so deep, but for Hartsy he’s got to try.

 

“There you are,” Hartsy says, sounding pleased and warm, not at all put out by the blubbering sub on his lap. “They want to close up the rink, so I need to take you home now. Is that ok? You can nod if you want.”

 

Brandon wants to try and speak, but his voice feels as raw as his emotions, so he resorts to a nod, unsure if Hartsy means he is taking Brandon home with him or to his own sad little apartment. Either way it means more time with Hartsy, so he’ll take it. As it turns out, Hartsy takes them to his house, a well-proportioned stately little thing, out of place on the edge of the city, but pretty none the less. Brandon had slept most of the way there, so he has no idea where he actually is, but it doesn’t really matter. Instead of taking him upstairs, Hartsy guides him to a huge couch in a living room area.

 

“Before anything else happens, I think we need to talk about things.”

 

Brandon feels himself fill with dread. He has the feeling of ice rapidly approaching his face, something inevitable that is going to hurt. This is it. This is when Hartsy tells him that he is sleeping in a guest bedroom and getting taken home in the morning, that he doesn’t do long-term subs and Brandon just has to be okay with that.

 

“Hey, I can see you freaking out over there. Don’t. Whatever bad thing you think is happening isn’t, ok?”

 

Brandon nods and tries to hold it together.

 

“So we’ll start with this: I don’t know who told you I don’t want you, or that you don’t deserve my love, but you are going to tell me, and I am going to go out and beat the lying bastard to death,” Hartsy says with a perfectly straight face. “Then, when I am done with that, I am going to go get a contract for us. Does that sound fair?”

 

Brandon is sure he looks like he got checked from behind, mouth hanging open, eyes bugging out.

 

Hartsy chuckles. “From the look on your face, I take it this is not what you thought was happening?” Brandon nods and Hartsy’s face gets serious again. “Nodding is good and all, but I am going to need to hear you say you’re okay with all of this before I get started.”

 

“‘Okay with it?’ Scott, I went under for you in thirty seconds flat. That’s not a thing, that doesn’t happen for me. ‘Okay with it’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.” Brandon’s voice still sounds scratchy and his throat hurts, but he is so happy he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

 

“Not the most romantic acceptance, but I’ll take it.”

 

Brandon blushes. “Well, you know I have been falling in love with you all season, so there’s that.”

 

Now Hartsy looks shocked. “You mean I could have had you months ago? God, I am an idiot.”

 

Brandon shrugs, grinning a little.

 

“I’d say we need to make up for lost time, but we have had one hell of a day, so how about we sign that contract and go straight to sleep?”

 

Brandon nods and watches, as Hartsy opens a lockbox and pulls out a contract. He seems a little nervous bringing it over, and Brandon realizes why when he sees his name and information already filled out. He looks up at Hartsy, a little confused.

 

“How long have you had these?”

 

“Kid, I knew I wanted to keep you from that very first day. It killed me to let you walk away to that elevator. I almost didn’t—Nick had to stop me from going after you.”

 

Brandon curls up against his side, content, feeling something like love welling up in his heart. “Well, now that you get to keep me, what are you going to do with me?”

 

“Oh, you’re going to be a challenge, aren’t you?” Hartsy answers, eyes twinkling. “I love a challenge.” And, underneath his joking tone, Brandon hears the implied _and I love you_.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was lovingly titled by my out of fandom beta thedronesneedyou: "Trapped in the sandwich part 3" who spent most of their time imagining all sub references were in fact sandwiches.


End file.
